


tears used up on another love

by la_victorienne



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Derek Owns a Vineyard in Texas, Derek and Stiles are Grownups Now, Future Fic, M/M, Stiles is a Grad Student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: After almost a decade, a cross-country move, and happenstance, Derek and Stiles meet in a honky tonk and fall in love.





	tears used up on another love

It doesn’t get cool in the autumn here the way it used to in Beacon Hills, the wind sweeping into the valley, leaving frost on all the leaves. Here it waits until the middle of October and swings wildly, ninety degrees in the shade one day, forty-five in the sun the next. Derek prefers the cold and the dark, but he’s lived in Texas for eight years now; he can live in Texas for a few more.

When dawn breaks over the horizon it’s time to get up, feed the animals and check the vines for ripeness, designate which ones will be harvested and which ones he’ll leave for the next day. It’s easy work if you’re willing to focus, accept the silence of green things, walk alone with your thoughts. Derek has plenty of practice.

After the pigs, horses, and goats are happy, and after he’s given detailed instructions to the hands and day laborers, he jumps in the truck for delivery. Living in Texas hill country is like living in a pack in more ways than one—all of his neighbors are small batch vintners, brewers, and distillers, and they take turns making the all-day delivery runs into Austin and back, stopping off in every little town on Highway 290 on the way. It’s a different kind of alone than the morning walk. Derek puts on long audiobooks about far-away worlds, fantasy unlike the life he used to live, and takes his time.

It is a luxury he never felt he could afford in Beacon Hills, twenty-two and the only member of his family left alive. Twenty-two and tasked with the responsibility of ensuring the legacy of the Hale pack, reputation and territory alike. Everything was always happening then—there was no respite for a frightened young man with more money and dead family than sense. When he finally left the burden of his inheritance behind, bought the vineyard and moved out of California, it was like time itself ground to a crawl. Now, a year seems like it takes forever. There is always plenty of _time._

Once he makes it to Austin, then, he breaks for a leisurely lunch at a downtown food truck, eats tacos _al pastor_ with lime and cilantro and profoundly spicy salsa before making his rounds to the local restaurants. (This way, when Tenille at _Mother’s_ tries to load him up with cornbread smothered in honey, he can honestly say he’s full.) It’s easy to talk with these people, restauranteurs and sommeliers, a language of smiles, rather than bared teeth. He unloads cases from the truck bed, accepts paperwork and signed invoices, shakes hands and waves hello and goodbye until the sun is setting and it’s time to head back home.

His last stop on the way out of town is _The Broken Spoke_ , delivering the last few cases of beer and liquor still in the truck. It’s seven, and people are starting to file in, ordering drinks before whatever band is the opening act on a Tuesday night in October. It’s dark, but not too dark, which is why when he catches a glimpse of a familiar face, a ready smile, it stops him in his tracks, because he’s sure. He’s sure it’s Stiles, a thousand miles away from Beacon Hills, eighty miles away from his own piece of Texas land, here, in front of him, an arm’s length away.

Suddenly Derek feels that same feeling of uncertainty from his twenties, the hard-pressing responsibility and anxiety that go hand in hand with being an Alpha. He thought he’d left it behind a long time ago, but apparently not. He’s about to duck out of the bar without delivering the boxes, without saying anything, and then Stiles looks up and meets his eyes.

Derek doesn’t believe in love at first sight, not after Kate. Derek doesn’t believe in fate, not after Peter. Derek definitely doesn’t believe in destiny, not after the Hale pack crashed and burned in Beacon Hills, leaving the McCall pack in its wake. But he’s looking at Stiles now, and Stiles is looking at him, and neither one of them is in California any longer. And if there’s one thing Derek knows he has to believe in, it’s new beginnings.

“Derek? Derek Hale? Is that you? What are the fucking odds, man?”

And even if there was a choice when he walked in, now there’s no choice at all. Derek moves forward, into Stiles’ space, and holds out his hand. “Stiles Stilinski, as I live and breathe.”

Stiles’ smile is brilliant. It lights up the barroom in its entirety. They shake hands. They linger. It’s suddenly as easy as breathing to be here, standing toe-to-toe with one of his erstwhile wolf pack, shoulders aching, eyes open. (Is it his shoulders aching, or his heart? Derek doesn’t want to know.)

“What are you doing here, man? You fell off the face of the earth when you left Beacon Hills. You ended up here, in Austin? Gotta say, doesn’t seem like you. Too many people in this city for your liking, I’d think.” Stiles has let go of Derek’s hand, but not his elbow; his long fingers are curled around Derek’s arm as if to keep him from turning tail. Derek huffs a laugh.

“You’re right there, Stiles. I live out in hill country. I have, uh. I have a vineyard.” Stiles’ eyes are twinkling, but he’s not laughing at Derek. There’s a feeling starting in Derek’s toes, wholly inappropriate for a man his age, a feeling he only remembers experiencing once before. He’s bewildered and delighted and embarrassed all at the same time, and he abruptly remembers that he has a delivery to make, but he can’t justify making Stiles let go of his arm.

“You? A winemaker? I gotta say, D, there’s a lot of things I thought you could go into, and making wine is not even remotely one of them. Is it any good?” Stiles asks, and Derek’s life flashes in front of his eyes.

“You could come by and try it,” he finds himself stammering. “No time like the present. I have a few boxes to drop off behind the bar but I’m on my way back there now.” His heart is in his throat. Eight years of peaceful solitude are suddenly over, and he can’t find it within himself to mind. Stiles is still smiling.

“Damn, D. We haven’t seen each other in nearly a decade. You finally got game,” Stiles says, and he’s laughing. “I’ve got a bike outside, like any respectable Austinite. Think it’ll fit in your ride?”

“Uh, yeah,” Derek finally says, stammering. “Let me—I’ll just—I’ve gotta—hey, Carrie Mae, you ready for these boxes?” he finally calls out, catching sight of the Tuesday night bartender. “I’ll just—be right back.”

He throws a glance back at Stiles as he walks out the back door. Stiles is watching him leave. Derek feels a frisson of energy travel down his body, leaving goosebumps. _Okay_ , he thinks. _So we’re doing this_.

The last time he and Stiles saw each other, it was at the airport. He’d never thought they were good enough friends to give each other airport rides, but when he was ready to leave, Stiles pulled up in his beat-up Jeep and grinned out the window. Derek got in, because old habits die hard, and after saving the world together, there wasn’t much reason to spurn a ride offered freely. Derek remembers the glint off of the Jeep’s bumper as it drove away. He’d thought then it was the end.

He’s suddenly, profoundly glad that it wasn’t.

Stiles is already waiting outside when he gets done with Carrie Mae, his fixed-gear over his shoulder. It’s the same color as the Jeep used to be. It’s dark, now, and they have two hours and change of drive ahead of them. It’s a terrible idea, but Derek points at the truck and claps Stiles on the shoulder. “That’s me. You sure you want to come along? No rideshares or motorized scooters out there. I’ll have to drive you back tomorrow.”

“Fuck you for thinking I’d get on one of those scooters,” Stiles retorts, and chucks his fixy in the back. “Accessibility nightmare. Idiot kids can’t park ‘em where they won’t impede a wheelchair. I’m constantly lifting them out of the way.” He starts to climb in the passenger side of the truck and grins. “Come on, old man,” he says. “Take me out to your vineyard. I don’t have to be back in town until noon.”

On the way back, Stiles is in constant motion. He messes with the radio, starts a playlist going, turns the volume up and down to suit his whims. He tells Derek about the last eight years, where Scott is, what happened after he left. He touches on his work at the university, his research and his students, still talking a mile a minute as if they’re back in Beacon Hills, on the way to a lacrosse game or a fight. As if no time has passed at all. Finally, he stops for breath. “How did you end up here, man? Texas, of all places?”

Derek shrugs. “Thought I was just passing through, but I stayed. Enchanted Rock had a lot to do with it—there’s a pack that meets out there in the state park over the full moon. Good place to get your running out, just you and the ground and the sky. Needed a place where I could look at the stars. Found a winery that needed a buyer. It all just came together.”

“And now I’m here, and you didn’t know what you were missing,” Stiles jokes, looking out the window as the highway dwindles to two lanes and the hills start.

“And I didn’t know what I was missing,” Derek agrees in earnest, eyes still on the road ahead. He can feel it when Stiles’ head snaps back to look at him; he can hear the stutter in Stiles’ heartbeat. “I’m thirty-three, Stiles. I’m ten years too old to fuck around.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters.

“Last chance to change your mind. I can turn around, if this wasn’t what you expected. We can keep in touch.”

Stiles laughs, sharply, as if it’s a surprise to even him. “Yeah, as if. Breaking news: Derek Hale is still intense as fuck, and it’s ridiculously hot. We’re doing this, big guy. Unless _you_ need to change your mind.”

Derek shakes his head. He still hasn’t looked over to meet Stiles’ eyes. “I’m good.” In the seat next to him, Stiles’ hands twitch.

By the time they get out to the ranch it’s full dark, and the stars are out. It’s a few degrees cooler out here than it is in Austin, usually, and the cold front is coming in, so there’s a fresh breeze rustling the vines as Derek takes Stiles by the elbow and leads him forward. “Watch your step, here,” he says, clicking on a flashlight. “Here’s one that’ll probably be ready to harvest tomorrow. Do you want to taste?”

Stiles bites the grape directly out of Derek’s hands and moans. Derek shivers, then laughs; the moonlight illuminates just enough to see Stiles’ expression. “What are you laughing at?”

Derek reaches out, touches Stiles’ face, and draws him in for a kiss.

He would be lying if he claimed never to have thought about this. Derek knows it takes years for him to open up all of his walls and barriers, to let someone grow from acquaintance to friend to lover. It hasn’t been worth pursuing until now. He’s been focused on himself, as absurd as it sounds, working the land and his life at once. And he’d never have thought to invite Stiles here, had they not met by happenstance; but now that they’re here together, it’s as if he’s been making this place ready for them. Building a home.

Wolves mate for life.

Stiles’ hand is clutching at Derek’s collar, anchoring him in place. When Derek pulls away, Stiles’ hand stays there. “You don’t have to charm me, Stilinski,” Derek finally says. “I’m flattered, but the grapes are just grapes. Do you want to come inside?” Stiles just nods against him and slides his hand down to Derek’s. Derek leads him through the farmhouse door.

Boots go off by the door and they tiptoe up the creaky stairs in socked feet. Stiles is laughing and Derek is grinning and the moon is shining in through the window, not a trace of clouds in the night sky. He lives alone in this house but they don’t turn on a single light, unbuckling pants and untucking shirts in the dark until it’s just their bodies colliding, crashing together like waves on the sand.

Derek runs his hands over Stiles’ chest, feeling every plane and curve. He’s grown into himself—wiry forearms, taut biceps, the wisp of hair starting just past the dip of his collarbone. Derek drags his mouth over Stiles’ shoulders as Stiles reaches for him confidently, taking firm grasp of the back of Derek’s hair in one hand and the curve of his ass in the other. He catches hold of Derek’s hair and pulls him back, smiling down the half-inch height difference between them before dipping back into a kiss.

Stiles kisses like he’s sure of what he wants, like he knew even before today that they would end up here in Derek’s ancient farmhouse, kissing for the first time, and that all he had to do was wait. He kisses Derek over and over, slow and luxuriant until Derek is helpless to do anything but turn them, fall backwards into the bed with Stiles over him, and trust. He always assumed it would be the other way around.

Stiles shucks off their pants, tender and efficient at once, until there’s nothing between them but skin, cocks rutting against the curve of each other’s body. It’s slow and perfect and Derek is aching, suddenly careening over a razor’s edge. “Stiles,” he’s panting, as Stiles reaches down and strokes him slowly. “Stiles, god.”

“No, not god,” Stiles chuckles, but he’s straining too, and Derek catches a glimpse of the look on his face by the light of the moon, brow slightly furrowed in focus, lips parted. He feels a swell of something in his heart, difficult to place, easily dismissed for the moment.

“Yeah, yeah, you little shit,” he whispers in response, even though they’re the only ones here, and he could scream if he felt like it. “Take the compliment—ah—it might be the last one I ever give you.”

Stiles ducks his head, presses his mouth to Derek’s again, and twists his wrist, swallowing the involuntary sound Derek makes. It’s been a long time, and the pressure is building, and Stiles is paying attention, it seems, to every minor detail. If Derek concentrates, he can hear the stutter of Stiles’ heartbeat, pounding in his chest, belying the calm they’re both so desperately trying to project. It’s reassuring, actually; it’s nice to know that Derek isn’t the only one quaking in his boots over this. Over the possibilities. Over what it might _mean_.

Derek arches into Stiles’ touch, drags his fingers down Stiles’ back, blessedly human still. Here, this moment, just before he comes, everything is clear: this is what he has been waiting for, what will make this life he’s chosen perfect. The land, and the sky, and the wolf, and Stiles. He comes all at once, in a rush, with a gasp, and Stiles grins.

“Not so fast,” Derek says, and smoothly flips them over. He knows the score, now. That for all their feigned confidence, they are still simply men who might have fallen in love once, as children. He scrapes his teeth over Stiles’ nipple, bites down at his hip before blowing a cool stream of air over the red, slick head of Stiles’ dick.

“You ass,” Stiles mutters, breathless. “You can’t possibly—have known—that I thought about this.”

Derek hums, licking his lips, trying to calculate the likelihood of this blowjob living up to expectations. “You were eighteen, Stiles. I’d be surprised if you hadn’t. _I_ know what I looked like then.”

The force with which Stiles rolls his eyes moves the entire bed. “ _Ugh_ ,” he says, with feeling. “You’re twice as hot now, with gray in your hair. Are you gonna suck my dick or are you gonna make me wait all night? I got you off like a champ.”

“I missed this,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles hitches a breath. “Your smart mouth.” And he bends his head to the task.

It is gratifying, then, that it takes as little time for Stiles as it did for him—the magic combination of longing, intensity, and desperation at work. It’s not the best head he’s ever given (nor, hopefully, _will_ give, he thinks to himself), but it seems to do the trick, leaving Stiles sweating and gasping under him when he’s finished. He bites back over Stiles’ hip before he gets up for a washcloth, and Stiles pulls him back down for a kiss instead. “Don’t be long,” Stiles says, and it’s not the faux-smooth line any longer.

“I won’t,” Derek murmurs, and it’s true. They clean up and curl up, not ready to fall asleep, but filled with a pleasant post-coital lassitude unfamiliar to Derek. Stiles idly checks the notifications on his phone, his head pillowed on Derek’s shoulder, and tosses it away when there’s nothing but a text from Scott.

“He can wait,” Stiles murmurs. “I’m all yours, for now.”

“Just for now?” Derek finds himself asking. He knows that he’s not the cool, leather-jacket-wearing tough guy he used to be, but it’s a little embarrassing how quickly he’s willing to make a fool of himself where Stiles is concerned. But it’s better out than in, he supposes, getting lost in his own thoughts and nearly forgetting to listen for Stiles’ answer.

“Mm, play your cards right and you’ll be rid of me in no time,” Stiles says quietly. “You can go back to being Derek Hale, lone wolf, orphan who spends his inheritance on a vineyard in nowhere, Texas.”

“I know you’re joking,” Derek says, “but you should know—I’m not that guy anymore, Stiles. That guy never would have brought you back here—he’d have been too chickenshit. I love my vineyard in nowhere, Texas, but I’m not the tough guy I had to be in Beacon Hills, and I certainly don’t want to be rid of you.” _Not now, not ever_ , his brain helpfully supplies.

Stiles props himself up on his elbow and peers down at Derek in earnest. “You really _aren’t_ that guy, are you, Derek Hale?”

It’s rhetorical, and Derek _knows_ it’s rhetorical, but he shakes his head anyway, helpless under Stiles’ scrutiny. He’s about to say something absurd, something like the _stay, stay, stay, stay_ repeating itself over and over in his mind, when Stiles presses down for a new, different kiss, intimate and matter-of-fact.

In the morning, Derek will wake up with the sun and putter around the vineyard, check on the animals and make coffee before gently shaking Stiles awake. They’ll drive back to Austin in the daylight, Stiles pressed up next to him on the bench seat, talking his ear off about his graduate research and the state of things back home in Beacon Hills. On the weekend Stiles will drive his ancient Jeep (“of course I still have it, Derek, who do you think I am?”) out to the ranch and kidnap Derek for a picnic out on Enchanted Rock, and Derek will finally tell him what the last few years have been like. They’ll make room and time for each other, week after week after week, out here under the Texas sky. And that will finally be that.

Tonight, Derek strokes Stiles’ hair until he falls asleep and listens to the owls and coyotes hoot and howl outside. He drifts off eventually, somewhere between one breath and the next. He’s not really keeping track. They have plenty of time.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in response to a request from @yamblr. "Derek and Stiles, but they're adults, and they never dated when they were younger."


End file.
